Bad Hugh eBook

“Nothing truer than that,” returned the
whittler, brushing the litter from his lap. “Now
I’ve no doubt that prig of a doctor, who they
say is shining up to Alice, will be disappointed when
he finds just how much she’s worth. Let
me see. What is his name? Lives up there,”
and with his jackknife Mr. Liston pointed toward Terrace
Hill.

“The Richards family live there, sir. You
mean their son, I presume.”

“Ted, the chap that has traveled and come home
so changed. They do say he’s actually taken
to visiting all the rheumatic old women in town, applying
sticking-plasters to their backs and administering
squills to their children, all free gratis.”

Poor doctor! How he fidgeted, moving so often
that his tormentor demurely asked him if he were sitting
on a thistle or what!

“Does Miss Johnson remain here?” the doctor
asked at last, and Mr. Liston replied by telling what
he knew of the arrangements.

At the mention of Worthington the doctor looked up
quickly. Whom had he known by that name, or where
had he heard it before? “Mrs. Worthington,
Mrs. Worthington,” he repeated, unpleasant memories
of something, he knew not what, rising to his mind.
“Is he living in this vicinity?”

“In Elmwood. It’s a widow and her
daughter,” Mr. Liston answered, wisely resolving
to say nothing of a young man, lest the doctor should
feel anxious.

“A widow and her daughter! I must be mistaken
in thinking I ever knew any one by that name, though
it seems strangely familiar,” said the doctor,
and as by this time he had heard all he wished to hear,
he arose, and bidding Mr. Liston good-morning walked
away in no enviable frame of mind.

Looking at his watch the doctor found that it lacked
several hours yet ere the express from Boston was
due. But this did not discourage him. He
would stay in the fields or anywhere, and turning backward
he followed the course of the river winding under
the hill until he reached the friendly woods which
shielded him from observation. How he hated himself
hiding there among the trees, and how he longed for
the downward train, which came at last, and when the
village bell tolled out its summons to the house of
mourning, he sat in a corner of the car returning to
New York even faster than he had come.

Gradually the Riverside cottage filled with people
assembling to pay the last tribute of respect to the
deceased, who during her short stay among them had
endeared herself to many hearts.

Slowly, sadly, they bore her to the grave. Reverently
they laid her down to rest, and from the carriage
window Alice’s white face looked wistfully out
as “earth to earth, ashes to ashes,” broke
the solemn stillness. Oh, how she longed to lay
there, too, beside her mother! How the sunshine,
flecking the bright June grass with gleams of gold,
seemed to mock her misery as the gravelly earth rattled
heavily down upon the coffin lid, and she knew they